


Let Me Feel Your Danger

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Kinks, M/M, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8255561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Sam finds a way to bust Dean out of Hell, but it means drawing on his powers. Powers which, like his feelings for his brother, he finds increasingly difficult to control...





	

 

 

Sam claws frantically at the damp earth. He’d filled it in loosely back when he’d first laid Dean to rest, but the rain has saturated the soil, and it comes up in heavy dark clods. His shovel lies next to the hollow he’s made, and his fingers are filthy and bleeding, but he barely registers the pain. All he can think about is his brother trapped down there, blind and confused. He’s sweating, stale liquor and four days’ grime ripe on his skin, but he blinks the fresh droplets out of his eyes, and swipes the back of one dirty hand across his forehead.  
He picks the spade back up when his fingertips brush the edge of the crude wooden box, wedges the blade against it and pries up the lid. The wood splinters and gives and Sam throws the tool aside again in favour of busting Dean out with his torn hands.  
He steels himself, rips the flimsy casket apart and looks at his brother’s face for the first time in weeks. To Sam’s relief, he looks intact, serene even. No signs of corruption, and not a scar or a spatter of dried gore to be seen. Dean’s cheeks look plump and flushed with blood, not sallow and gaunt as they had when Sam had finally put him in the ground after hour upon endless hour just sitting with his ruined body cradled in his arms.  
It seems the angel has kept his word. Sam tentatively reaches out and touches Dean’s face. It’s warm. He stirs and his lashes flutter. His eyes open, and there’s light in them again. They’re green and bright and vital, not clouded and empty like they had been when Sam gently brushed them closed, and he’s so fucking grateful that big, fat tears roll down his face.  
“Sam?”  
Dean’s voice is a bone-dry, brittle thing.  
Sam nods and hauls his brother out of the ground. His clothes are still shredded, but Sam can see smooth, unscathed skin through the slashes in the fabric left by the hounds. Yes, the angel kept his word. And Sam’s done it. He’s busted his brother out of the pit.  
  
They sit in the diner booth, Dean wearing an outsized sweater of Sam’s to cover up his tattered shirt, grave dirt still under their nails. Sam had bought wet wipes and cleaned the worst of it from his brother’s face, and combed it out of his hair. Dean’s chewing a mouthful of burger, taking swigs of beer now and then to ease the huge wad of bread, meat and cheese down his gullet. His eyes flit to Sam’s face now and then, like he’s building up to something.  
“Easy,” Sam says fondly. “No one’s going to take it away from you.”  
Dean swallows and puts the half eaten burger down, wiping his greasy fingers on his jeans.  
“So, what did you do, Sammy?”  
Sam’s smile falters and he looks down at his own, untouched ranch salad.  
“Sammy?”  
“Do we have to talk about this right now, Dean? Look, I told you, I didn’t sell my soul. Nothing’s coming for me. Eat your food,” he signals to the waitress for two more beers, “and we’ll have another beer and later I’ll tell you the whole story. But for now, let’s just celebrate, OK?”  
Dean looks dubious. He seems smaller and frailer than Sam has ever seen him, even more so than lying in the hospital bed with a damaged heart, but there’s something preternaturally beautiful about him now too, like the angel has left some trace of Heaven smeared on his skin. He keeps telling Sam he doesn’t remember Hell, but the way his eyes lose focus now and then and he has to ball his fists in his lap so Sam can’t see his hands shaking, tells a different story.

They find a hotel for the night, much nicer than they would normally allow themselves, but Sam figures his brother needs all the creature comforts he can provide right about now. He considers splashing out on a room for each of them, but he wants to be there in case Dean has nightmares and he’s never really slept soundly unless he knows his brother is close enough to reach out and touch. It had taken him a long time to adjust at Stanford. If he ever really did.  
They have a couple of drinks in the lounge before Sam orders a bottle of decent Bourbon and they retreat to their room.  
“Well, Sammy,” Dean smirks. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”  
He winks in that way he does, and Sam’s stomach feels weird and he’s not entirely sure he can put it down to the liquor or the profound relief he feels at seeing his brother whole again.  
Sam presses his lips together to keep from smiling and flops down on one of the twin beds. Dean takes the bottle from him, unstoppers it, takes a swig and hands it back before sitting on the other.  
“Mmm,” he says, eyes fluttering closed. “That’s what I’m talking about, Sammy.”  
Sam takes a deep swallow and licks his lips. He’s a little drunk. The liquor is butterscotch heat on his lips and leaves a delicious tingle on his tongue.  
“Yeah,” he agrees. “That is good.” He takes another drink and leans over to give Dean the bottle. “We deserve that. You deserve that. Oh, and I meant to give you back this.”  
Sam pulls the leather thong up and over his head and drops the warm weight of the amulet into his palm. He passes it to Dean who grins and examines it for a minute before he puts it back around his own neck.  
“Thanks, Sammy.”  
They sit in comfortable silence for a while, savouring the Bourbon, the warmth of the room, the soft beds, the clean smelling linen. They bask in temporary safety and the simple fact of them both being alive. Then Dean spoils it.  
“So how’d you do it, Sam? No more stalling. I wanna know everything.”  
Sam sighs.  
“Can’t you just trust me on this one, Dean? It was nothing bad, OK? No crossroads deals and no trading places. I promise. It’s all above board. I had some help, but…the good kind. So don’t sweat it.”  
Dean’s eyes are boring holes through him. His throat works as he takes another slug.  
“So, if it’s nothing sinister,” he says finally, “you can tell me all about it. Right, Sammy?”  
Sam knows his brother has the bit between his teeth now, and he’s not likely to let the subject drop. He hadn’t really thought through what he was going to tell him, blind need overriding his usual pragmatism. He feels hot and squirmy under the scrutiny, like he’s eleven years old again and he’s been caught looking at the torn out centrefold he knows Dean keeps under his mattress.  
He takes a deep breath.  
“It was an angel.”  
Dean studies him carefully for a few seconds then laughs.  
“This Bourbon must be even better than I thought, because I could’ve sworn you just said an angel pulled me out of Hell.”  
“I know you don’t believe in them, but I swear to you. It was an angel. I found a way to summon an angel and I did. And he agreed to help me. That’s all there is.”  
Dean scoffs.  
“So what’s this angel’s name? Why don’t you summon him right now so I can thank him person?”  
Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head.  
“Don’t you mean gank him in person? See, I knew you’d be like this.”  
“Like what?”  
“Pissed off. Suspicious. Why can’t you just accept that I found a way and be glad about it?”  
Dean stands and tosses Sam the bottle. He pulls off the sweater and toes off his boots, making his way to the en suite.  
“Because we never catch a break, Sam. And you’re acting shady.”  
He disappears into the bathroom and Sam hears the shower run.  
“Dammit!” he says, under his breath, slamming the Bourbon down on the nightstand. A heartbeat later there is an answering bang from the bathroom.  
“Ow! Fuck!”  
Sam springs up and pushes at the locked bathroom door.  
“Dean? You OK in there?”  
“Yeah,” Dean raises his voice over the hiss of the water. “Just this damn shower door is screwy. Sprung right open and caught me on the…son of a bitch!”  
“Dean?”  
Sam waits while Dean fumbles the door open and peeks around it, looking suddenly pale. There’s a small cut above his eyebrow, but it’s not the bump on the head which has him rattled.  
“An angel, you said?”  
Sam nods.  
Dean slowly opens the door and stands in front of Sam, shirtless and with his jeans unbuckled. He turns a little to his right.  
“Guess that would explain this.”  
Sam sees it then, the large burn in the shape of a hand curled possessively around his brother’s shoulder.  
  
They fall back into their old routine quickly. Neither of them really knows how to do anything else, even though Sam tried really hard for four long years to convince himself he could be happy somewhere other than at Dean’s side.  
Sam’s grateful that Dean seems to have dropped the subject of his resurrection. He is terrified that his brother will find out the things he’s done to enhance his powers, to become the sort of creature capable of summoning and holding a bonafide angel of the Lord. Sam feels it always, side-winding through his veins, coiling around his heart. Magic. Power. The blood of black-eyed demons. He knows Dean would be horrified at the thought of his little brother harnessing all that evil, even though is intentions have always been good.  
Castiel appears to him every few days, even though Sam’s broken the spell which bound them now that he has what he needs: Dean alive and with him. The angel seems to have developed a fascination for his brother which goes beyond any collateral interest he may have expressed when he agreed to fetch Dean’s soul from the pit, and Sam doesn’t like it one bit.  
He thinks he may have made promises to Castiel. Something about letting Dean make his own choice when the time comes. In retrospect, Sam should have paid more attention. He should have thought things through. But Sam didn’t think. He just wanted. Just needed. And surely the angels are on their side? Dean’s anyway.  
  
The handprint bothers him. He can’t articulate why, even in the privacy of his own mind. He wishes he could scrub it off. Just hold Dean down and erase any trace of the angel’s mark.  
It’s worse at times like this when he’s trying to quit the blood and hasn’t taken a hit for weeks. He thinks about the taste of it all the time and his control becomes erratic. He’s watching Dean tinker with the Impala’s engine by the side of dirt track in the middle of who-the-fuck-knows-where, Idaho, scowling at the place where it is, seared into the skin beneath the layers of plaid and cotton. It just bothers him so damn much. He could say something. He could do something right now. He has the size, the build, the power coursing through him. He could wrestle his brother to the dusty ground and stake his own claim. Bruise his jaw, bloody his nose, bite down on the tender flesh of his neck –  
“SONOFBITCH!”  
Sam snaps out of his twisted reverie to see Dean’s arms flailing, hands groping for the edge of the hood which has fallen, trapping his head and shoulders underneath it.  
“Shit!” Sam lurches forward and lifts it up. Dean stands and touches the back of his head gingerly. Apparently satisfied nothing is broken, he turns and glares at Sam.  
“What was that?”  
Sam shrugs.  
“What?”  
Dean rolls his eyes.  
“THAT, Sam. What the Hell was that?”  
“I have no idea. The prop must have slipped.”  
Dean narrows his eyes at him. Then he indicates the car with a bob of his head.  
“Hold it up while I finish, Sasquatch.”  
Sam holds up the hood with hands which are trembling slightly.  
  
They’re in a bar. Sam is nursing a beer which has long since gone flat and warm. He’s watching Dean as he orders yet another round of shots for himself and a petite brunette who looks a little too like Ruby’s current incarnation for Sam’s liking. His mind is taken to dark places when he thinks of her. He wants her blood. He craves it, even though she sickens him. He remembers her compact body, her small weight on his lap, her riding him, gasping in pleasure with a dead girl’s voice. Now he’s horny and full of self-loathing. He doesn’t regret taking the blood. He did it for Dean and he’d do it again to save him. But he knows Dean would be repulsed if he knew. He’d say Sam’s become like the things they hunt, and maybe he has because he can’t shake these black thoughts.  
Dean laughs and the girl touches his arm and Sam wants to break her scrawny neck. It’s the first time Dean’s shown an interest in women since he came back, and part of Sam had hoped he was done with all this. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe the angel is punishing him for forcing his hand like that. Because Sam shouldn’t be watching his brother with this increasing hunger.  
Dean leans down and whispers something right in the girl’s ear and she nods, and Sam is damned if he’s going to sit here, alone with his depraved thoughts, while his brother bangs some pick-up in their room. The room he’ll have to approach with caution later, listening to make sure she’s gone before he enters and tries to sleep while the air is swampy with the stink of her cunt and his brother’s come.  
Sam’s hard under the table. There’s a sweet metallic taste on his tongue and red creeping into his periphery. His hears ringing in his ears and thinks he might pass out. He shuts his eyes against the growing rage inside him. He hears glass breaking and a shriek, and he opens them to see the girl, standing open-mouthed and Dean cradling one of his hands in the other. There is blood dripping down his wrist and shards of glass glittering all over the floor.  
“What the fuck!” he spits, and Sam is up and at his side, his ire doused by the shock seeing his brother in pain.  
“Dean? What happened?”  
Dean looks up at him, eyes dark and lips pressed into a tight line. There are lacerations to his palm, but nothing too serious. Sam carefully brushes a sliver of glass off Dean’s finger.  
“We need to talk, Sam. Motel. Now. You’re driving.”  
  
They drive back in tense silence, and Sam knows Dean has realised something is very wrong here. When they get back, Sam disinfects and wraps his brother’s hand as gently as he can, picking out all the glass he can find. Dean winces when the rubbing alcohol seeps into the open wounds, and Sam strokes soothingly over his pulse point and forearm.  
“So the tumblers just…exploded?”  
Dean glowers at him, brow knitted.  
“No, Sam. They didn’t just explode. Something happened. There was…some kind of force. I felt it just before the glass shattered. And just before I got brained by the hood of my car, and just before I got a face-full of shower door. Now, you wanna tell me what’s going on?”  
Sam looks down at the coverlet. He bites his lip and tries to breathe evenly through his nose.  
“Sam?”  
“I think it’s me,” Sam says quietly. “I had to strengthen my…abilities to bring the angel to get you out, and now…sometimes they get a little unpredictable.”  
“Strengthen them how exactly?”  
Sam shakes his head.  
“It doesn’t matter. I’m…done with it now. You don’t need to worry.”  
“Don’t need to worry? Sam, I’m living in Buster friggin’ Keaton movie thanks to you! I’d say worrying is entirely appropriate right now. What did you do?”  
“Dean! I’ve got this!”  
“No you haven’t, Sammy!” Dean yells. “I’ve got a hand full of glass and a couple bumps on my melon which can testify to the fact that you really haven’t got this!”  
Sam feels his muscles tense up, a dull throb starting up in his temples.  
“SAM?” Dean is really pissed now, but Sam has no answer for him. He just needs some breathing space. For Dean to trust him to handle this. He would never willingly hurt his brother. Dean must know that.  
“Fine!” Dean stands and snatches up his jacket with his uninjured hand. “I’m getting out of here before you do any real damage.”  
“No!”  
It only takes a split second. One moment, Dean is heading for the door, the next he is pinned to the wall by an unseen force, feet a clear few inches off the ground.  
“Sammy!” He sounds scared now as well as furious. “Sammy, what are you doing?”  
“I don’t know, Dean! I’m sorry. I’m not doing it on purpose. I just - ”  
“Put me down, Sam!”  
“Not until you listen to me!”  
Sam slides his brother another couple of inches up the wall.  
Dean moans and Sam feels a shudder work through his body.  
“Dean?”  
“Jesus, I just…It’s like hands, Sam. Hands all over me. Holding my wrists. What’re you doing to me?”  
Dean’s breathing is ragged and Sam realises with a sickening jolt that he isn’t the only one harbouring secrets. Some part of Dean likes being manhandled. The lack of control. Maybe he learned that in Hell. Maybe he learned it from their father. Maybe it’s always been there.  
Sam concentrates hard, imagines holding Dean in place and clenches his hands. Dean moans again, and Sam can almost feel the bones in his wrists grinding in his grip although there’s a good six feet between them. Sam mentally lets go of one of Dean’s arms and brings the free phantom-hand up to his brother’s throat. He lets it close gently around it, and Dean’s eyes fall shut. Sam squeezes, softly at first, and Dean sighs. He releases the pressure, then presses down again, clutching in little pulses until Dean is gasping and Sam can see the outline of his dick, filling and lengthening in his jeans.  
“Fuck, Sam,” Dean croaks, and Sam realises his own cock is rock hard and throbbing.  
“I’ve got it, Dean,” he whispers. “I can do this.”  
Sam isn’t sure what he means by that. He’s harnessing the power bleeding out of him, but there’s no way he’s in control of himself. He’s choking his brother, watching him get hard and getting off on it. No part of that is OK.  
“You need to stop, Sammy,” Dean says quietly, and Sam fixes his stare on Dean’s fly. Opens the button and eases down the zip. Dean’s eyes roll back in his head. Sam watches, awed, as Dean’s tee rips away as easy as wet tissue, and the hand print on his shoulder is revealed.  
“He can’t have you, Dean,” Sam says. “The angel. Hell can’t have you. Heaven can’t have you. All those girls, every bar in every damn town. None of them can have you. You’re mine, Dean. Whatever I’ve done to get you back, I’d do again. You need to believe that.”  
He traces the outline of Castiel’s hand with his mind and then visualises biting down right in the centre of the scar.  
“Sam!” Dean is almost sobbing now, splayed against the wall like a stuck butterfly. Crucified. His jeans are open, thick cock poking out of his boxers. Sam thinks about what it would be like to take it in his mouth. He knows the taste of his own spunk. Maybe Dean’s is the same. They share blood, so maybe their come is similar too. He can imagine the way the soft skin of the head would feel against his lips. Dean lets out a long, tortured groan and Sam knows he’s feeling it too. Sam thinks about spearing his brother open on one long finger while he sucks him off and Dean starts, hips bucking up and away from the wall. It’s almost comical, the way Dean looks affronted, confused and turned on all at once.  
Sam thinks this is more addictive than demon blood. Having Dean like this. He’s writhing and panting, but he can’t get free. Sam has him held fast with his mind, and Dean can only moan and take it as he’s probed and stroked and licked and sucked by his brother’s warped imaginings.  
“You like this, Dean.” It’s not a question. “Being restrained and roughed up.”  
Dean licks his lips and closes his eyes, shame turning his cheeks pink.  
“You like it to hurt. You like it nasty. You like that it’s me. Your brother.”  
“Shut up,” Dean whispers.  
Sam takes a few steps towards him. He imagines taking one of Dean’s nipples between his thumb and forefinger and twisting. A bead of clear, viscous fluid wells up from the slit and slides down the underside of Dean’s cock.  
“Tell me to stop again,” Sam says, moving closer still. “Tell me to stop and I will. I’ll pack my stuff and leave right now. I’m sick. A monster. You should put me down, just like Dad always said.”  
Dean shakes his head, and there are tears in his green eyes when he finally opens them.  
“Don’t say that, Sammy. Don’t you say that.”  
“I don’t know what to do, Dean. There’s something broken in me.”  
Sam doesn’t know which way is up. His heart is racing and he wants to touch Dean so badly, really touch him, that he physically aches with it.  
“Yeah, well,” Dean glances down to where his dick is twitching and leaking all over the place. He attempts a smile but it looks wrong. “Looks like you’re not the only freak in the family.”  
Sam closes the remaining space between them and puts his lips on his brother’s. Dean goes stock still for a while, and then opens for it, nudging Sam’s mouth wide and licking his way deep inside. Sam sucks on Dean’s plump lower lip, barely resisting the urge to bite down. He opens his own fly and lets the hot length of his cock rut up against Dean’s. The skin catches and drags and it’s almost pain and not quite enough. Sam kisses his brother hard and wet as his large hands cup his ass and he grinds them together firmly.  
“Holy shit, Sammy…yeah! Right there. Don’t stop. I’m close.”  
Dean’s voice is urgent and clear. He says it the way he might tell Sam to duck before he fires off a salt round or order him to pick him up some pie on the way back from the library.  
Sam gets a hand between them, yanks Dean’s pants further down and runs his finger tip through the mess of precome slicking up their thighs. He reaches behind Dean again, jamming his finger up inside his brother’s tight hole to the first knuckle. He feels the ring of muscle, tight and still too dry, roll down his finger.  
Dean makes a hurt noise and comes all over Sam’s cock. Sam thrusts into the mess, slippery and warm, and then he’s following Dean over the edge. He groans as his cock pulses wildly, and his muscles spasm to the point of cramping with the force of it. He feels dizzy, and the next thing he knows, he’s on the floor with Dean crushed underneath him.  
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean gasps, breath hot and moist against Sam’s face. “What the fuck was that?”  
Sam can’t bear to look at him.  
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’ll go.”  
Dean’s arm clamps around his bicep. Their combined jizz is cold and sticky on Sam’s groin.  
“You’re not going anywhere,” Dean says. “You may be a giant idiot with freaky powers, but you’re still my brother.”  
His voice breaks on the last word, and Sam feels an icy squirt of guilt in his gut.  
“Let’s get cleaned up. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. And I mean everything. And I’m gonna be needing a drink.”  
Dean pushes him off and Sam lies stunned for a while, looking up at the watermarked ceiling. He hears water running. He recalls how Dean could always wrangle the truth out of him as kids. Always managed to make things seem better. Well, Sam thinks, we’re not in Kansas anymore. But he got Dean back. Dean’s out and alive and he hasn’t bolted for the door yet. Angels, demons, Hell. It’s all academic. Only Sam can come between him and Dean, and he’s damned if he’s going to let that happen.  
Sam gets to his feet, tucks himself away, and rummages through Dean’s bag for the fifth of whiskey he knows he’ll find in there. Then he sits and waits for his brother to finish his shower. They have a lot to talk about.

 

 

 


End file.
